Collected Hotch&Prentiss Short Fics
by MyQuantumTheory
Summary: I take requests and write drabble / ficlet things over on my tumblr, and I figured I should collect them here too, for those of you who don't do the tumblr thing. These are the Hotchniss ones.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! Welcome to this collection of Hotch/Prentiss short fics. They're from various timelines, but the first 4 were written to work together, starting here, post-** ** _Angel Maker_** **. Please take a moment to review if you can :)**

He hands over the brownies, admits he shouldn't be flying and agrees to take a couple of days off. He hears the concern in their voices, especially in hers, and there's something about it that makes the thought of the drive, of a few days with no work to distract him, a bit more bearable. He gets into the SUV, closes the door as gently as he can and leans his head back. The pain is approaching unbearable right now, pounding from his ear into his brain.

Then the passenger door opens, and he turns slowly. He knows who it's going to be before he opens his eyes.

"I brought you this," Emily says, offering him a brownie wrapped in a napkin. She closes her door gently too, fastens her seatbelt and looks at him with a challenge in her eyes.

"You're flying," he says firmly, but she just raises her eyebrows and he can't help smiling.

"And you're driving all the way to DC by yourself," she says, nudging his hand with the brownie. He takes it and she smiles. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"Prentiss -"

"And if you let me drive, I'll be on the side of you with the working ear," she adds, and the way her voice softens a little shuts him up. "Seriously, Hotch. You're obviously in pain. Let me drive."

He doesn't know what makes him do it. If it was anyone else, he'd turn to the road and start the car. If it was her a few months ago, he'd have done the same. But he doesn't. He sighs, hands over the keys and gets out. He opens the passenger door, meaning to let her out, but she's already clambered over to the driver's side. She smiles as he gets in, that smile he can't not respond to.

As soon as he gets his seatbelt on, she starts the car, and he leans his head back and closes his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to get a handle on the pain. "Bad, huh?" she says, and he nods, assuming she's looking at him. Then he feels her hand on his arm, just squeezing lightly, quick comfort, and his heart starts pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. The instant she takes her hand off him he feels the loss, and he's left with the uncomfortable realisation that his feelings for her might be getting out of hand.

"Emily."

She doesn't answer for a second, and he realises he might never have used her first name before. He opens his eyes, watches for her reaction. She's a closed book, just a small smile as she glances over to acknowledge him. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for being…" He regrets it the second he opens his mouth, because there is no good way to end that sentence. For being _you_. "Concerned," he says, after too long.

She glances over again with a smile that gets his heart going all over again. "Get some rest."


	2. Chapter 2

He watches her stumble out of the compound and he thinks he might actually cry out with relief, and when Morgan and Reid get out he does. He stands back, watching her hug them, his ears ringing. She's alive. Limping and bleeding and crying, but she's alive, and all he wants is to come forward, wrap his arms around her, press his nose into her hair, tilt her face up and kiss her bruises… The strength of it overwhelms him, and when she turns, her eyes glistening with tears, he can do nothing but stare back at her.

When she's been checked out and they can head for the airport, she gravitates toward him and he doesn't hesitate – he opens the passenger door of the SUV for her and helps her in, hating the way she has to struggle to sit straight. "Take your painkillers," he says, and realises too late his voice sounds as strangled as he feels. He closes the door, gets in beside her and they sit in silence for a few moments, watching the others drive off. "Emily -"

"I'm okay," she says softly, staring straight forward. "I knew…"

He waits for her to go on, but she doesn't. Eventually he reaches across, takes a bottle of water from the glove compartment and hands it to her. "For your painkillers," he says.

She gives him a quick smile as she opens it, takes a couple of pills. "We should get going. The jet -"

"They'll wait for us," he replies, his voice so quietly intense she actually shivers. She nods, waits for him to go on. For the first time since she met him, he struggles to make eye contact, looking past her and down at her feet and at the dashboard before eventually meeting her eyes. She smiles, can't help it, although it makes her face sting. "Emily, you did great work. You never stopped trying to communicate with us, and you were incredibly brave and quick thinking."

"Thank you," she says, although her name in his voice is spinning around and around in her head. He never says it, not directly to her, and there's something about it… "I knew you'd be out there," she says, surprising herself. "That's what I was going to say before. I was… I mean, it sucked. But I knew you were out there and I knew you'd do everything…" she trails off and shrugs, sending searing hot pain shooting through her ribs, and drops her head back.

He reaches across and takes her hand, and her eyes snap back to his, her expression unreadable. "It was the worst sound I've ever heard," he says quietly, his throat aching with every syllable. "When he was hurting you, I couldn't… I couldn't think straight, I just wanted…" He realises what he's saying and stops abruptly, and her hands close over his and she squeezes. "I'm sorry," he says, watching their hands because he can't look at her face any more.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she replies, her voice gentle and comforting, and he knows he must be doing a terrible job of keeping himself together. "I'm sorry you had to hear that." He keeps looking down and she traces over and over the back of his hand with her fingertips. His eyes flick up to hers, surprised at the intimacy of the touch, but he doesn't stop her. "You did everything right," she adds. "I meant it. If you'd come in then…"

"I know," he says, sitting back and looking straight out of the windscreen again, leaving his hand in her lap – a big part of him knows he shouldn't, they shouldn't be this intimate, but a bigger part of him can't care about that right now. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

Tears start stinging at her eyes and she gives him a watery smile. "You don't need to protect me," she says. "Not all the time. We protect each other."


	3. Chapter 3

After Colorado, she hasn't been in her apartment ten minutes before she calls him. She feels vulnerable and on edge and in pain – she wouldn't let him drive her home because she doesn't want to be fussed over, but it turns out she doesn't want to be alone either. He answers on the first ring. "I'll be right over."

When he arrives, he follows her to the kitchen, watching the way she tries to cover up the pain, the way it obviously hurts to smile but she does it anyway every time she looks at him. Every word he wants to say to her gets lost in his throat. About how he realised when she was in there that he would have done just about anything to get her out alive and whole, how every time she cried out in pain it tore through him… She reaches across the counter for a bottle of wine and hisses with pain, her hands coming up to her ribs, and finally, he finds his voice. "Emily, let me."

She drops her hands to the counter and her chin to her chest, her back turned to him, and he finds himself at her side a second later, resting a hesitant hand on her back. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, because if he says it any louder she'll hear the quiver in his voice. He can still hear her taking that beating. "I'm sorry I put you in there. I'm sorry you got hurt and I'm sorry I couldn't come in."

She shakes her head. "Not your fault," she says, her voice just as soft. He can hear it wavering anyway. "You couldn't have known. I'd do it again."

"I know."

"I've had worse."

Well, that doesn't help. His stomach clenches at the thought, because he knows she chose this job, but nobody chooses _this_. "God, Emily, that's…"

She smiles, turns toward him with shining eyes, so the hand that was on her back settles on her waist. It feels good, warm and soft over internal bruising. And safe, and a lot of other things she doesn't want to think about. She holds it there. "It's okay."

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks, brushing his thumb over her ribs. "A bath, or… Ice…"

She shakes her head, the concern in his voice cutting straight through her so a tear slips down her cheek before she can catch it. "God, sorry," she mutters, turning away, wiping at her stinging face.

He takes her by the shoulders and turns her slowly, lifts her chin up. Her eyes don't quite meet his, tears streaking her bruised cheeks, and his throat starts to ache. "You know, it's okay to cry," he tells her, and she gives him a weak half smile. "I'd be worried if you didn't."

"I know," she mutters. "I just… Don't."

He nods, wipes the tears from her face as gently as he can. "Well, now is an okay time to break that rule." She keeps her eyes on his, wide and so dark he finds himself staring, looking for where her pupils start. He realises too late he's looked too long, dropped his hands to her waist, and her expression is softening into something that has his pulse racing. He takes a deep breath, pushes away all the reasons this is a terrible idea and concentrates on the depths of her eyes, the curve of her waist under his palms. "Can I kiss you?"

She blinks once, twice, then her face breaks into a smile that must hurt. "Yes."


	4. Chapter 4

Finally, after a couple of weeks of heated glances, of needing to hold himself back from touching her every time she comes within a few feet of him, he gives in to himself and asks her to have dinner with him. Her eyes search him, reading him, and he brushes her hair back from her face and leans in to kiss her, the first time since her apartment after Colorado. He meant it to be soft, gentle, but she arches into him and he backs her up against his car, his hand firm on her hip and her hands gripping the back of his neck. He pulls back, their eyes locked and their breathing quick, and she nods her agreement.

They cook together, hands on each other as much as on task, and eat with their legs touching under the table. He keeps their wine topped up, so by the time dinner is finished, they're glowing pleasantly, eyes locked and fingertips laced together across the table. They talk about work at first, then nothing in particular, and as they drift into comfortable silence, his fingertips start tracing circles on the inside of her wrists – it sends warmth spiking through her, from the tips of his fingers to low in her abdomen, and something inside her panics. She can't. Not him. She pulls her hand back. "I'll get the dishes," she says, a little too suddenly, and he frowns in confusion but nods and lets her go.

She fills the sink and starts cleaning, singing softly, like she used to when she only had a few minutes to gather herself, when she was somebody else. It has the opposite effect this time, though, sending her hurtling back to the last time she had butterflies in her stomach. She has gone out with guys since JTF-12, but she hasn't felt _this_ for a long time. She is falling for him, hard and fast, and there's nothing she can do about it, and the deeper she gets the more dishonest she feels.

"I didn't know you could sing," Hotch says from the doorway.

She stops abruptly, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. She wants to say _there's a lot you don't know about me_ , playful and shy, but she can't right now because it's too painfully true and not nearly far enough back in her mind. So she just stands there, caught, elbow deep in the soapy water, until she feels him step behind her and his hands slide around her waist. "You okay?"

She nods, silent for too long, and leans back into him. Despite everything, it feels right. "I'm okay."

"You're preoccupied."

She nods again.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

 _Yes_ , she thinks. So much. Except she can't, partly because she couldn't bear it if it horrified him but mostly because she can't, she swore an oath… She shakes her head. "It's nothing in particular," she says, drying her hands and turning round, wrapping her arms around him and folding herself into him.

He holds her close, pressing a kiss behind her ear. "You can tell me," he says softly. "Whatever it is, whenever you're ready."

 **That's the end of the little 4-parter :) Timeline and tone all over the place from now on.**


	5. Chapter 5

Exactly a week after Haley and Jack go into protective custody, Emily shows up at Hotch's apartment with Chinese food. She follows him to the kitchen, sets it down on the counter and turns toward him, looks him over. His eyes are dark and haunted, like he hasn't slept all week, and nothing about him softens when he looks at her. It's disconcerting, and she hesitates before speaking. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," he replies, looking down at the counter.

She sighs, reaching up to slide her fingers into his hair. "Honey, we'll get him."

He tenses when she touches him, shaking his head, pulling himself away from her. She drops her hand automatically and he meets her eyes with his SSA Hotchner stare. Her heart sinks before he even opens his mouth. "Emily, we need to stop this."

The hard edge in his voice takes her by surprise – she takes half a step back and feels her defences rise. "Do we?" she says, her tone too clipped, too measured.

He turns away and she sees his jaw tighten, his hands clenching to fists at his sides. " _Yes_ ," he replies through his teeth. "We shouldn't be doing this."

She shakes her head in frustration, refusing to open her mouth until she's absolutely sure she's not going to cry. "Aaron, if this is about Foyet -"

"Of course it is," he hisses, his voice quiet and frustrated. "I can't – Emily, he's… He watched Shaunessey fall apart and that sustained him for years… He's targeting Haley and Jack and as long as you're with me you're a target too. I can't – I won't let him -"

She sighs. "As long as he knows you _care_ about me, I'm a target," she corrects. "You can't protect me. Not like this, not by pulling away from me. If he's coming he's coming."

His head drops and she reaches for him again hesitantly, her hand trailing from his lower back up to his shoulder blades, his muscles tense under her palm. "We can't let him win," she says softly, rubbing circles on his back. "Isolating yourself isn't going to make it better."

He shakes his head, turns back to her and wraps his arms around her as far as they'll go, holding her close. "He could have killed Morgan. He could have killed me. If he targets you…"

She nods, spreading her hands over his back. "I know… But right now I'm here, I'm okay, and I brought you dinner."


	6. Chapter 6

When he's supposed to be off on leave after New York, she catches him in the parking lot with an arm full of files and a hand pressed to his head. She catches up with him at a jog, turns him with a hand at his elbow. "Hey."

She does something to his heart when she catches him off guard like that. Even though he's still almost numb from Kate and his head is pounding, his ear ringing, he notices how wide and dark her eyes are, the concern all over her face, the way she ran to catch up with him rather than yell. He swallows, reroutes his brain. "Prentiss," he replies.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, looking him over, lingering longer on the files than the cuts on his face. He says something noncommittal, convincing neither of them. She holds up her car keys. "Let me drive you home."

He shakes his head, starts to protest. "I'm f-"

"Hotch," she says flatly, an eyebrow raised. He does not look anywhere near _fine_. "Come on. You're not supposed to be driving. It's no problem."

He holds her gaze for a few seconds before figuring he can't win this one. In her car, she asks where they're going, and his heart sinks a little. He knows he should have his own place by now, knows she's expecting the address of an actual apartment, and her concern over his need to pick up these files is not going to go away when she finds out he's planning to read them in a hotel room… When he's silent too long, she adds, "I'm sorry, I don't know where you…"

"You can drop me off downtown," he says, in his best 'and that's the end of that' voice.

"Or I could drop you off at your front door," she replies, starting the car.

"You don't have to -"

"I know."

Staring straight out of the windscreen even when he can feel her watching him, he gives her the name of the hotel. She puffs out a breath, and he shakes his head. "I just haven't got around to apartment hunting."

She turns the engine back off and turns to him, looks over his profile. His gaze is fixed straight forward, his brow creased, his lips pressed tightly together. Hands on his lap, gripping casefiles like a lifeline. She thinks of her hands pressed to wounds she knows will be fatal, blood pouring through her fingers no matter how hard she tries, of trying to scrub it out from under her nails, bleach it out of her sleeves. Feeling tears leak onto crisp hotel pillowcases and knowing her successes will never really cancel out her failures. It's out of her mouth before she's decided to say it. "Come home with me."

That breaks his focus. He turns to her, eyebrows raised. He'd reject the idea flat out, tell her it's not appropriate, his room is fine, except the pity he expected to find in her face is not there. Her expression is entirely matter of fact, a note of determination, maybe. The exact same Emily Prentiss who introduced herself in his office, who resigned her post in front of Strauss and told him he belonged in the BAU.

She sees him reading her and lets him. After a few seconds, she adds, "I have a spare room."

He waits a few more seconds, trying to pick apart his reasoning in his head. He wants to tell her yes. Kate is there every time he blinks, bleeding out and shivering and fading, and if he's totally honest he doesn't want to spend another night alone in a room that means nothing to him but the absence of Haley. He wonders if he'd accept if somebody else offered, if her eyes didn't crack him open, if this really is inappropriate…

"Hotch."

"Okay."


	7. Chapter 7

She takes a breath, releases it slowly, and he's watching her with concern, eyes fixed on hers. "Emily," he urges.

"I did a pregnancy test," she says, and her hand finds its way up, settles below her belly button as tears start to pool in her eyes. "And then I saw a doctor. And I still can't believe it."

"Emily," he repeats, barely above a breath. He reaches for her, pulls her into him and wraps his arms tight around her as she clings to him. He feels the damp spread on his shoulder and rubs up and down her back. "I love you," he whispers, and she nods, holds him tighter.

Because she's terrified, that's the thing. The odds were getting slimmer before Doyle, and the doctors had told her outright she had very little chance of becoming pregnant after that injury. She's all scar tissue in there, Doyle's final revenge for taking Declan. She slides a hand down from his back, around to her stomach again, slides it up under her shirt and wonders if she's imagining a new firmness there.

* * *

To his surprise and relief, she agrees almost immediately to come out of the field. She doesn't want to tell the team anything yet – when they get pulled away on a case she says something vague about doctor's orders and from the looks on their faces she knows they've assumed she means her therapist. JJ hugs her hard before they leave, tells her to focus on herself. She consults from DC under Penelope's watchful eye and spends a lot of her time in the bathroom, discovering for herself what a misnomer _morning sickness_ really is.

* * *

After a couple of drops of blood and a sleepless night spent at the hospital, Hotch wipes her tears and holds her hand as they watch their baby's heart beating on the ultrasound. They tell her there's a chance it's something from the old injury, that the baby is safe but they want to do frequent scans, make sure everything is going right in there. She nods, tries to reconstruct her brave face.

* * *

By the time she gets to twelve weeks, she is so ready to tell people. The team are worried for her, she knows, still assuming it's PTSD keeping her out of the field, and Jack is picking up on her concern too. They tell him first. "A baby?" he repeats, a smile spreading over his face. "For real?"

* * *

They're at Rossi's when the team find out, reunited after a case, and she doesn't have much choice, really. She doesn't catch him in time to quietly ask him not to pour her wine, and when she refuses the glass he offers her she can feel their eyes on her. "More for you, right?" she tries, and his eyebrows creep toward his hairline.

"Something you're not telling us, Emily?" JJ guesses, and Penelope's eyes go wide and hopeful.

Suddenly she feels like the air has been knocked out of her, can only manage a breathless, "I'm pregnant," before she's tearing up again. They descend on her, Penelope first, hugging long and hard and tearful. Rossi kisses her dramatically on both cheeks. Morgan pulls her in next, kisses the top of her head and congratulates her, then Reid wraps her in one of those hugs where she feels like his arms could go all the way around her twice. She can't stop the tears, and by the time JJ gets to her, pulls her out of the crowd a little with her hands on her shoulders, she's actually sobbing. "Hey," JJ whispers. "Congratulations."

"I am so scared," she chokes, staring down at the floor. "It's so risky. What if -"

"Emily," JJ says firmly, holding her by the shoulders at arm's length and craning to catch her eyes. She's tearing up now too, fighting hard to keep her voice steady. "Try not to worry about _what if_ , okay? Just take care of yourself. Stay out of the field. Promise."

Emily nods, the intensity in JJ's voice bringing her tears to a halt.

She leans into hospital pillows with Hotch's arm around her shoulder and her daughter in her arms. She's small and – as the doctors put it – needed a little help with breathing to start with. But she's here now just a few hours later, bundled up in blankets and a stupidly tiny hat, and breathing all by herself. "You made it," Emily whispers, and Hotch's hand tightens on her shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

She doesn't realise she's given the cab driver the wrong address until she pays him and gets out, and finds herself outside Hotch's apartment. _Freudian slip_ , she thinks, and it makes her giggle. She checks her watch – they have tomorrow off, so he's probably still awake. Sober Emily would try to catch the cab. Drunk Emily doesn't want to run up the street in heels. And sober Emily would have done a better job of remembering her address.

By the time she reaches his door, she's almost talked herself out of knocking. She feels silly, dressed up and not entirely steady on her feet, the world a little shinier than normal – but she's come this far. She knocks.

He opens the door still in his work clothes – the tie is off and the sleeves are rolled up, the top two buttons undone. It's the powder blue shirt. She loves the powder blue shirt. He steps back to let her in, and she hesitates. "You okay?" he asks, looking her over. It's not the first time she's shown up at his door since he signed the divorce papers – they've spent quite a few evenings here together – but it _is_ the first time she's done it at nearly midnight in a black scoop neck dress and heels.

She nods, smiling easily. "Yeah, I just -" She doesn't want to say she said his address when she meant to say her own, but she doesn't have a better excuse. "You want to come for a walk with me?"

His eyebrows raise and he checks his watch instinctively. Then he looks down at her feet – he is no expert, but her shoes don't exactly look comfortable. "Are you sure you want to go for a walk?"

"Yes," she says. "Positive."

Then she giggles – actually giggles, a sound he would never have imagined her capable of producing, and before he knows it he's putting on his shoes and grabbing his keys. As they walk down the street, she tells him she was out with people she knew in school, when her mother was back in the US. "Friends?" he asks.

"Honestly?" she replies. "Even 'people I knew' is a bit of a stretch. 'People who knew me' would be an outright lie."

She's starting to slow down, so he takes her hand, hooks it into his elbow and crosses the street, sits down on a low wall with his ankles crossed in front of him. She joins him, sitting closer than she normally would and keeping her hand around his arm. He tucks it in close to his body and watches, transfixed, as she stretches her legs out in front of them, kicks her shoes off and stretches her toes. _Beautiful_ , he thinks, and clears his throat. "I'm glad you came over," he says.

She smiles and leans sideways, her head on his shoulder, everything starting to spin a little. "I'm kind of drunk," she admits, like there's a chance he hasn't noticed, and he laughs. " _What_?" she says, batting him.

"I know."

"Oh." She pauses, stretches her toes, circles her ankles. Her feet look very far away, and she's getting sleepy.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get back."

She picks up her shoes, and she looks so adorable standing there swinging them that he does it without thinking – takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. She looks up at him and smiles, swings their arms a little as they walk back to his apartment.

When they get back he gives her one of his t-shirts to change into and pours her a glass of water, leaves it on the nightstand in the spare room for her. "Goodnight," he says, knocking lightly on the door of the bathroom.

"Night," she replies, muffled by her toothbrush. He goes to bed with a stupid smile on his face.

* * *

In the morning, she shuffles into the kitchen as he's making toast – he turns to ask her if she wants coffee but the words get lost on the way to his mouth. She stands leaning against the counter in his t-shirt and her underwear, every gorgeous inch of her legs bare, her hair messed up on one side. She smiles self-consciously, a hint of a blush rising in her cheeks.

They both begin talking at the same time, then stop, laugh, and he turns away, chastising himself. _You're a grown man_ , he tells himself. _They're just legs_. But they're not. He turns back, fixes his eyes on hers. "You first."

"I'm sorry," she says. "For showing up. I just… Honestly, I didn't realise I was coming here until I got out of the cab." He laughs and she shakes her head, smiling, looks down at her feet then back up at him, wonderfully domestic in socks, jeans and a t-shirt, a butter knife in one hand. "I guess I felt crappy after seeing those people, and I…"

He drops the knife and he's coming toward her before he knows what he's doing, his hand on her face, winding into her hair. Her eyes widen and her head tilts, her lips part, then his other hand is on her waist and she's up on her toes and he's pulling her closer, their lips meeting – soft at first then desperate, like they might never stop. When he pulls back to breathe, his hand is under her t-shirt, resting against the curve of her lower back, and her chest rises and falls quickly as she drops back onto flat feet. She smiles, touching his cheek softly with her fingertips. "That – that was nice," she says.

He nods, kisses her forehead. He's still not quite sure what just happened, or what they're going to do about it, but he does know it's been a long time coming and it feels better than anything has for more years than he's willing to admit. "Please don't apologise for showing up."


	9. Chapter 9

After she agrees to come back to the BAU, he drives her back to his place, her hand settled over his on her thigh the whole silent way home. Jack's face lights up with shock and happiness when she comes through the door and after a couple of seconds of hesitation he runs to her – she picks him up, buries her face in him and they hug hard.

Jack sits in her lap and Hotch holds her hand as they do their best to explain where she's been and why. He waits on the sofa while she takes Jack upstairs.

When she gets back, there are tears on her cheeks – she sits down beside him, settles her legs over his. "I thought I'd never…" she begins softly, then stops, chewing her lip. In the time she was somebody else, she tried not to think about them. But it didn't work out.

He shakes his head and slides his hand up her back, spreading his palm over the silk of her blouse –she is everything he remembers. Strong and lean and soft and warm and something that's just _her_. His hand finds her hair, her neck, and she closes her eyes and leans back into his touch, her hands sliding up his arms and settling on his shoulders. She's beautiful – pale skin and dark, glistening lashes, her head tilted back, her bottom lip caught between her teeth to keep it from trembling… His fingertips trace over the curve of her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. She's here, really here, alive and safe. He hears himself whisper her name and her eyes open, dark and fathomless and shining with an expression he tried not to resign himself to never seeing again. They flicker over his face, studying him. "I love you," she says softly, for the first time since the hospital, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her as close as he can get her.

Their mouths meet like she never left – she slides her fingers into his hair and feels the tension drain from her body. There's nothing hungry about it – she knows that will come later, the reaffirmation, but for now his mouth is soft on hers, caressing. She feels tears rise behind her eyes, feels the heat in his cheeks that means he feels the same, and holds him as close as she can without breaking contact with his lips. She brings her hands around to rest on his face, wiping away a tear that drops to her thumb, brushes her tongue over his lip.

It's the heat of his breath, she thinks, as his mouth opens further to her and his hands start trailing down her sides, his fingers tracing every curve, remembering her. The way kissing him is so warm, so safe, the way she can't tell if it's his breath or hers… She has missed _this_ , everything but especially this. She wraps her arms around his back, spreads a hand over his shoulder blade, keeping her kisses soft and gentle and reassuring. She realises she's crying now, her lips trembling against his, and he nuzzles her face gently. "Okay?" he whispers.

"I'm good," she replies, and feeling the loss of contact already she threads her hand into his hair, pulls him back to her. He starts whispering against her mouth but she can't concentrate on the words – just the feel of his breath meeting hers as she holds him against her.


	10. Chapter 10

He's seen it coming in the number of candles on the birthday cakes and the slow, steady appearance of posters on the bedroom walls, but Hotch finds himself feeling thoroughly unprepared for life with a teenage son.

He comes home after driving Jack to school, sits across the kitchen table from Emily, and she lowers the book she's been reading, one eyebrow raised. "Did he say anything in the car?"

"Nothing," Hotch replies, rubbing his temples, trying to ignore the increasingly amused expression on her face. "Well, no, he said 'thanks, love you, see you later'."

"That's sweet," Emily says, her smile softening. "He's still so sweet."

"Then he messed up his hair in the wing mirror before getting out of the car."

"Ooooooh," Emily breathes.

Hotch buries his head in his hands. "It's a crush."

"It is a crush." She gets up, stands behind him with her hands on his shoulders until he leans back into her. "Talk to him. He's only being so quiet because he feels awkward about it. It's embarrassing. Just show him it doesn't have to be."

Jack slides into the passenger seat, drops his backpack at his feet and clips his seatbelt on. "Hey," he mumbles, looking past Hotch toward the far end of the parking lot.

Hotch resists following his gaze – he starts driving, and spends the next ten minutes steeling himself to say something. "You know you can talk to me about it, if you want to," he says, eyes very much on the road.

Jack's quiet for a long time, so long Hotch thinks he's going to have to try to start the conversation all over again. Eventually, he sighs. "How'd you get Emily's attention when you had a – you know – when you liked her?"

Hotch glances over, surprised Jack has taken to the subject so easily, when he gave him an easy out to talk about something else. "I guess it was different for us. We just…" He thinks for a moment about a way to phrase the beginning of their relationship that's appropriate for his teenage son, and shakes his head. "When I was in school, it was your mom's attention I was trying to get."

He rolls to a stop at a red light and turns to Jack – he's looking back at him, those same big brown eyes full of questions he had as a little kid. "What was she like?"

"She…" It rolls over him in a wave, the guilt that his son will never really know Haley. Not like he should have – he has memories of a loving mother, but none of the woman Haley was. He swallows hard and turns back to the road.

"You don't have to -"

"She was beautiful," Hotch says, when he can trust his voice. "And funny. I didn't know her well, not at first, but every time I saw her, people were laughing around her. She was so… So happy. And smart, too. She worked hard and she was great at pretty much everything she ever did. She was out of my league."

"Apparently not," Jack says with a quiet smile, gesturing to himself with raised eyebrows. It occurs to Hotch for the first time that Jack might actually be thinking about having sex – he pushes that to the back of his mind to deal with another day. He smiles, and Jack continues, "How'd you get her to notice you?"

They're pulling up outside the house now – Hotch unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn't get out of the car. He turns toward Jack, half smiling. "I auditioned for a play."

Jack chews on the smile forming on his lips, a gesture that is so Emily. "What was the play? Were you good?"

"The Pirates of Penzance. I was terrible. But she couldn't really fail to notice me… I think I still have the hat somewhere, actually."

Jack collapses forward with laughter, eventually looking up at Hotch and repeating, "The hat!" in a snigger.

Hotch smiles, eyebrows raised, waiting for Jack to compose himself before continuing. "Well, like you said. It obviously worked. I looked like an idiot. I kind of felt like an idiot. But it… It showed her I could do that, I guess. That I could have fun, and give something a try even if I wasn't great at it, and…" He shrugs. "I guess she liked that. I guess everybody likes that."

Jack nods, looking thoughtfully out of the windshield. "I never thought of you like that. As a kid… Being bad at something, even."

"I'm bad at plenty," Hotch replies. He spots Emily spying on them from the gap between the blinds, gives her a half wave: we're coming.

"The uh – the person I…" His cheeks flush and he shakes his head. "I've been thinking I might start learning guitar."

"I think that's a good idea."


	11. Chapter 11

She's not sure how she ends up at Rossi's, exactly. It was a bad case, a really bad one, the kind that gets under the whole team's skin and sits there like poison. The plane journey home is over four hours of near silence, and when they get back to the BAU everyone goes their separate ways – Reid home to his apartment to lose himself in foreign books or Doctor Who DVDs, Morgan home with Garcia to watch a movie, JJ home to Will and Henry, already on the phone to them when she gets in the elevator. Hotch and Rossi head for their offices, and Emily sits at her desk, shuffles papers around for a while then just sits there, staring at the blank screen. She'll go home in an hour, she tells herself. She just needs time.

She tunes out for a while, not quite compartmentalising and not quite thinking either, and then Rossi's voice breaks through her silence. "Can I tempt you to join us?"

"Huh?" she says, turning to look at him. He's leaning against the edge of her desk, jacket on and bag over his shoulder.

"Hotch is coming over to my place – Jack's camping with his friend's family for the weekend," he repeats. She hesitates, chewing her lip. "Come on. You look like you could use the company." She nods.

They sit around the fire in his living room, Hotch and Emily together on the sofa, watching the flames in silence as Rossi rummages around in the kitchen. He comes back with a bottle of scotch and three glasses and starts pouring.

"I don't drink anything that burns," Emily warns, as he reaches for the third glass.

"Oh, this doesn't burn," he assures her, pouring her a measure. "It caresses."

She laughs as he passes her the glass and raises his. She picks her glass up, and they do a three-way _clink_ before sipping. She sips warily at first, preparing herself for the kind of whiskey she's used to from another life, but it's so good it goes down like water. "Oh my god," she says.

Hotch smiles a little. "Converted?"

"Definitely."

They settle into comfortable silence and the next several glasses go just as quickly – eventually they find their words and start talking, about nothing at first, then about Jack, then about the case. "It just sucks, you know?" Emily mutters, her throat and stomach feeling warm from the scotch, her tongue just a little sluggish. She wraps her arms around her legs, her mind full of images from the past few days. "Those kids. They shouldn't…"

She trails off and Hotch and Rossi nod, looking at nothing in particular. "We got him," Rossi says. "He can't do it again."

"Yeah," she mutters, and doesn't add _that's not good enough_. Before her brain has time to catch up to her body, she's leaning sideways, settling her head on Hotch's shoulder. He stiffens for a second and she catches herself. "Sorry," she says, shifting back.

"No," he says quickly. "It's okay."

A slow smile spreads on her face, which she tries to cover by sipping more scotch, as she settles against him. He feels warm and strong, and something in the back of her mind tells her she'd never do this sober, but the front of her mind doesn't care. Rossi raises his eyebrows, watching them but saying nothing. "Jack must be having a good time," he says eventually. "Last weekend this trip was all he could talk about."

"I'm sorry you can't see him tonight," Emily adds softly. "But I'm sure he's having a great time."

Hotch leans his head sideways, settling it on hers for a few moments before straightening up. Her cheeks burn, and she resolves to blame the alcohol if questioned. "Thanks. I know he'll love it." He takes another sip of scotch and adds, "This is fine too."


	12. Chapter 12

She leans against the bar beside him, runs her hand through her hair – it's growing out now, hitting her shoulders again after the short cut she had when she came back from Paris. He notices, of course he does – he's been noticing her all night, not to mention the last several years – but he wants to claw his face off when he hears himself say it out loud. "Your hair's getting long again."

A hint of surprise flickers across her face, but it's quickly replaced by an easy smile, rarer these days than before she left. She nods. "You cut yours," she says, reaching up, running her fingers through his hair. It's so unexpected he laughs, and she does too, ruffling his hair and dropping her hand back down, entwining her fingertips with his.

He squeezes before he's even really registered the intimacy of the whole thing. "Emily Prentiss," he says, eyebrows raised. "Are you drunk?"

"Maybe," she replies, tilting her head and smiling back. Tipsy, he assesses – she is very much in control of herself. And quite possibly him. "Why do you ask?"

"What are you doing?" he says, and he hears the smile in his voice, sees it reflected in her eyes.

"I'm flirting with you, Hotch," she replies – her tone is dry, but there's an irresistible heat in her eyes as her hand slides up his arm and over his shoulder, coming to rest at the back of his neck.

He knows he shouldn't encourage her. Or himself. He should excuse himself, call a cab and go home. She'll be embarrassed tomorrow, he knows, but they'll get over it. It's not like they don't both know there's attraction there, on both sides. They also both know there are a whole plethora of reasons they should keep it buried. But it's getting harder every second to remember those reasons, to stop himself from responding to the intensity of her gaze, the soft warmth of her palm on his neck. His hands drift to her waist and there's a gleam of something like anticipation in her eyes as she guides him toward the dancefloor, into the anonymous crowd of tightly packed dancing bodies. _The team are here somewhere_ , he thinks absently, but can't look away from her long enough to find them. She carves out a space for them easily, hooks her hands together at the back of his neck. "This okay?" she says.

 _T_ he feel of her swaying hips under his hands races through his blood, gets his heart pounding so hard he can barely think. He nods. She smiles, drops her gaze, and when she looks back up her lip is caught between her teeth, her eyes sparkling but uncertain. She comes closer, wraps her arms tighter around him, and he's not even sure he's still breathing. "This okay?" she repeats, softer, and he can feel her breath on his neck. He nods again, and she rests her head on his shoulder, presses their bodies together, and this time he actually feels the breath catch in his chest. "Hotch?"

He nuzzles her hair, spreads his hands out over her back. He wants to answer her, but the words get lost on the way to his mouth, and eventually she pulls back just far enough to meet his eyes. "I want to ask you something, and I don't want it to make anything weird."

It occurs to him that the time to stop things from getting weird has passed, but he just nods, and she chews her lip for another second. "Can I kiss you?"

His mind races and stutters to a halt. He's told himself it's a bad idea for so long, but he wants nothing more. "Yes," he says, feeling the enormity of it only when her eyes shine and her smile trembles, and she tilts her head, brushes his lips softly – it takes him a second to respond, and when he does she relaxes into him instantly. When they pull back, she rests her head on his shoulder again and they sway gently, their hands spread over each other's backs for as much contact as they can get. He expected it to feel wrong – for his mind to kick in and tell him he shouldn't be doing this. Bu it feels perfect. "How do you feel?" he whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say.

She presses her lips to his cheek and mumbles something that might be 'home'.


	13. Chapter 13

He can't believe it. Almost literally – he stares at the woman on the stage far too long before accepting that it's her and only just stops short of pinching himself. She'd told him, too. Some oblique reference to a Sin to Win weekend he couldn't stop himself from following up with a question, then an unusually bold moment where she'd handed him a ticket. He knew exactly where she was going when she left him sitting at the table. But still.

She stands straight and confident in the middle of the stage in this floor length black sequined thing that hugs her body in ridiculous ways, and his eyes fix first on her hand, the smooth and confident way her fingers wrap around the microphone, and then on her face. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he knows she's playing to the ridiculousness of the situation, expecting him to find it funny too. And he supposes it is on some level – Emily Prentiss the ambassador's daughter he was faintly aware of in a different life; Emily Prentiss the agent who found out when he was coming back from a case and staked out his office to fight for a chance on the team; Emily Prentiss the woman who drove to his house and insisted he come out with them the night he was served his divorce papers…

She winks at him before she starts to sing, and it is ridiculous, of course it is, but it's also beautiful. Her voice has him reeling, and he wonders why he didn't realise until now he's never actually heard her sing. It is low and sultry and unexpected and over too quickly and only when there are cheers and laughs and whistles around him does he remember there is an entire audience here. She blows a kiss, sashays off the stage, and he springs from his seat and waits for her at the stage door.

She appears with a smile and a glass of champagne in each hand and offers him one. He takes them both from her hands, places them down on a table, then pounces, his hands finding her waist and pulling her to him as their lips crash together. She responds enthusiastically, her arms coming up around his neck, and eventually she pulls back with a laugh. "Hotch," she breathes, meeting his eyes with this glorious mix of arousal and amusement as her hand comes round to cup his cheek. "We're in public."

He finds himself smiling back, his heart thudding in his ears. "We have a room upstairs."

She hums in agreement, picks up both champagne glasses and hands one to him, heading for the elevator without another word.

Later, they lie naked on top of the covers, the sequinned dress that had been abandoned on the floor now draped over the back of the desk chair, and she curls into his chest. He can feel her smiling again, and he knows on some level she's laughing at him but can't bring himself to care. "Prentiss," he says, and she tilts her head a little. "I uh… I didn't know you could sing."

She laughs, wraps a leg around his and pulls herself closer. "I didn't know you were so into Bond girls."


	14. Chapter 14

He insists on driving her to the airport. She gets in the car like a ghost and sits staring straight ahead, pale and poker faced. _Emily, are you sure_ … _Emily, I'm sorry… Emily, I love you…_ He doesn't say it, any of it, because he can't.

He carries her bag into the airport, makes sure she has her passport, her boarding pass… Then he just looks at her, and she looks back, her expression betraying no hint of excitement or anticipation, or even anything he can classify as ordinary nerves. Not much of anything, actually. "Hotch," she says, the quiver in her voice just about killing him. "I don't – I don't want you to wait with me."

He gets that. He holds his arms out uncertainly and she steps toward him, her head on his shoulder, and their arms wrap around each other. He looks up, blinking away tears. "You're going to be amazing, Emily. You know you can visit, whenever…"

When she steps back she smiles, or tries to – it doesn't get anywhere near her eyes. "Thank you."

He brushes his hand down her arm one last time, and he turns and walks away.

* * *

He regrets it as soon as he's out of the parking lot but it takes him longer to process _why_ he regrets it. He's losing her, he knows that. He missed his chance, missed a thousand chances, watched her slip away and now she's going forever. He can handle that because she said she needed this, she said she was looking over her shoulder in DC and something has to change…

Except she said it backed up against the corner of the café, her eyes never quite meeting his, her hands trembling on the table until she caught him looking and sat on them, her fingernails bitten down so far they bled onto the tablecloth… She lied to her therapist for months, she nearly got blown up… The dissociation, the hypervigilance, and he knows she hasn't been sleeping… He turns as soon as he can, checking his watch. If he puts his foot down, he can make it back before she has to check in.

* * *

She goes to the bathroom, locks herself in a stall and sits down on the closed seat, puts her head between her knees as her vision starts to swim, her body shaking violently and her breathing ragged. She tries holding her breath, something her therapist tried to teach her, but it hurts, she can't breathe, it isn't working… Her phone rings and she sits up straight and answers it on autopilot, her chest too constricted to say her name.

"Emily?"

 _Oh God, Hotch, why now_ … She closes her eyes, tries to hold her breath again…

"Emily, are you there? Listen, I know you didn't want a big goodbye, but I need to talk to you, okay? I'm coming back."

Finally, she catches her breath enough for one word. "Why?"

"Because you're not okay," he says, his voice low and soft and calming. She presses the phone closer to her ear. "And I need to make sure that if you do this, you're doing it for the right reasons." He pauses, and she knows he's listening to her trying to breathe. "Try slow breaths," he adds. "Out first, as long as you can. Then hold it, and then back in, okay?"

She gets herself together, almost, and stands where he left her, chewing her thumb. Every time she blinks she sees the rage in Doyle's eyes, and the metallic taste of her blood isn't helping, but she can't stop… When he arrives he takes her by the shoulders, pulls her gently toward him, and she tucks herself as close as she can get, her hands slipping under his jacket and around his back.

"Emily, are you sure?" he whispers into her hair, holding her tight. She's shaking, her hands trembling against his back. "It's an amazing opportunity, if you want it, but if you don't…" She pulls herself in tighter, nuzzles into his neck and he gives up on hiding and half truths and just says it, low and quiet right in her ear. "Sweetheart, I love you. I love you and I just want you to be happy."

She stiffens, and for a moment he regrets it, loosens his grip on her a little until he realises if anything she's holding on tighter. And there's a wet patch forming on his shoulder as she tries to figure out how to say what she's been thinking since Clyde offered her the job. "I just want this to be home," she mumbles. "I finally had a home and I lost it, and I just want it back."

He nods, bringing a hand up to comb through her hair. "You can take it back," he says softly. "Ask Easter for more time, do therapy… Properly," he adds, and she gives a shaky laugh. "Tell him you need time to think."

She's quiet for a long time, her fingers spreading out over his back. "I don't."


	15. Chapter 15

It's late – too late to be in the office, really, except Jack is sleeping over with a friend and he has a pile of paperwork he'd rather do here than at home. He's on autopilot – checking and signing and filing – when his phone rings. He answers without checking the called ID. "Hotchner."

Emily's incredulous voice greets him. "Are you still in work?"

He grimaces. "I might be. Jack's on a sleepover," he adds, although he's sure she knows that.

"Yeah," she says, something exasperated in her tone. But there's a smile too. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just thought I should get it all done while I don't have anything –" He shakes his head and checks his watch. She calls him at past midnight her time and he's talking to her about paperwork. He pushes the files away to one side of his desk and leans back in his chair. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," she says, her voice soft and relaxed. "Tired. I'm in bed, actually, I just wanted to talk to you – do you have time?"

"Of course."

He sits back and listens as she tells him about work, a case she's worried they're going to have to put on the back burner. She does this sometimes. She can't get too specific – neither of them can about open cases, but they've become incredibly adept at sharing just the right level of detail. "I don't want to let it go," she says, and when he closes his eyes he can see her rolling over onto her back, the phone held at her ear as she stares up at the ceiling. "We've had no new leads in months, but I can't just…"

He sighs. "I know. That's never easy." He pauses, just listening to her breathing for a while, then adds, "If there's anything I can do to help…"

"Thank you," she says, and there's something new in her voice that makes his heart speed up a little. "I really… I don't think there is, it's not something I can justify a BAU consult for. But I appreciate it." They're quiet a little longer, and he closes his eyes again, because with his eyes closed he can pretend he's not alone in his dark, silent office far too late at night, with Emily an ocean away. "Hey," she says, almost a whisper. He realises she's falling asleep, and his chest clenches painfully. "Miss you."

He swallows hard. "I miss you too. Goodnight."

"Night."

She doesn't hang up, and he stays on the line until she's been silent for a few minutes, then presses 'end call' and puts his phone down on his desk. He stares at it for a second, then a voice breaks into his silence. "Was that Emily?"

He looks up, spins his chair a little to face Rossi. "Yeah," he says. "How… How long have you been standing there? I thought you'd be home."

Rossi shrugs. "You'd think." He comes in, sits down on the other side of the desk. "You're in love with her."

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on his desk. "She's happy there."


	16. Chapter 16

They're reorganising the bookcases in the living room – tidying away some of Jack's picture books and replacing them with the chapter books he's starting to read by himself, finally ditching spare copies from merging their book collections – when Emily glances out of the window and groans. "That's my mother's car."

He turns, looks, and shrugs. "Well, we can take a break from -"

"I thought she was out of the country," she mutters, shoving books into the bookcase with unnecessary force.

"Emily -" he begins.

She glares at him, and then Jack comes in, arms full of books he's been keeping by his bed. Emily grabs him, scoops him up and he giggles as his books scatter around them. "Quick, hide behind the sofa!" she says, ducking under Hotch's arm and diving into the space behind the sofa, pulling blankets over them. Jack collapses in giggles. "We're hiding," she whispers dramatically.

There's a knock at the door, and Jack catches on quickly. "Who are we hiding from?" he replies in a stage whisper.

She widens her eyes and presses a finger to her lips. He puts his hand over his mouth to muffle his giggling, and nods.

When Hotch comes back to the living room with the ambassador (that's what Emily calls her when she's not happy with her and it's stuck), there are two pairs of feet sticking out from under a blanket behind the sofa. He glances sideways awkwardly, because he's only met the woman a handful of times and has no idea whether she'll find this entertaining or annoying. For a while it seems like she hasn't made up her mind – she just stares. Then she takes a seat, smiles and says, "If Emily and Jack aren't home right now, I can wait. I have all day."

Thirty minutes later, Emily stands in the kitchen making coffee, listening to her mother and Jack talking about books and school and games. It sounds completely foreign to her – there's a smile in her mother's voice, she sounds relaxed, like she's actually enjoying herself. She stirs the coffee absently, and feels Hotch's hands slip around her waist. "Hey," he says, his voice low and soft by her ear. "You okay?"

She nods. "It's just weird."

"What do you remember about your mother?" he asks, turning her around by the shoulders. "When you were a kid, I mean."

She tucks herself against him, arms around him, and he holds her tight. There's a sadness in the way she clings to him. Through the wall, Jack is talking about his friends at school, and the ambassador asks questions in all the right places, real curiosity in her voice. Emily sighs. "Not this," she says eventually.


	17. Chapter 17

It's a rare summer day off, and Hotch stands in Rossi's kitchen with him, prepping food for the barbecue – everyone else is outside and he's left Jack with Emily and the finger paints and giant construction paper she brought for him. It's kind of a perfect day, really – everyone is more relaxed than he's seen them in a while, and Jack is loving being the centre of attention.

It doesn't hurt that Emily is in a swimsuit and sundress, her smiles frequent and easy, her laugh ringing from outside alongside Jack's delighted giggling. He's falling hard and fast, and the team figured it out before they had to figure out how to tell them.

"She's good with him," Rossi observes, massaging oil into a chicken breast.

He doesn't reply, because his smile is doing it for him, and then he hears Jack's little feet running down the path.

"Daddy!" Hotch looks up from the pepper skewers he's been threading and his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. Jack stands in the doorway covered in paint, red and blue and yellow all over his hands, arms, legs and clothes, grinning widely. "I painted!" he announces.

"I see that," Hotch replies, nodding as Rossi laughs. He hears Emily coming down the path and adds, "You were supposed to be watching him."

She appears in the doorway behind Jack, also covered in paint, a blue smudge on her nose, and he shakes his head, smiling. "What makes you think I wasn't?" she says, and Jack giggles. "Are you going to come and see our painting or not?"


	18. Chapter 18

They leave from a staff entrance at the hospital, her head held high and her bag swung over his shoulder as curious cleaners and orderlies watch their departure. He glances sideways at her as they walk the short distance to the car - she is still limping, her arms folded across her abdomen, never quite catching his gaze.

He opens the car door for her and she gives a small smile as she gets in. He stows her bag in the trunk, gets in the driver's seat, and they're silent the whole way to the airstrip where their jet is waiting. The sight of the private, unmarked jet on the runway drives home the danger she is in here, and he finds himself on high alert, his hand at her waist holding her close to him before he realises what he's doing, the other hand on the gun at his hip. She doesn't look at him, or pull away.

Neither of them says a word until they're in the air.

"Thank you," she says, her throat dry, as she sits across the table from him. "For everything, for this." She waves vaguely around the jet.

He shakes his head. He almost reflexively tells her it's okay, but the words catch on the way to his throat, because he doesn't feel he can accept her thanks when he has failed her so absolutely.

"Hey," she says, when he's quiet too long. She taps her fingers on the table between them. "You saved my life."

"It shouldn't have needed saving," he says before he can stop himself. His usually concrete self control has been sliding since she flatlined in the ambulance - the EMTs made him let go of her hand so they could shock her heart back to life, and he's been stuck with that wrenching loss ever since.

She nods, slowly. "I put myself in danger," she says. "I did it to protect you, all of you, and -" she pauses, her expression sad and determined, and he thinks not for the first time that she's still hiding something. "And I understood what I was getting into. You couldn't have stopped me. Okay?"

To his surprise as much as hers, he finds himself smiling. She's reminding him of another time, when she marched into his office in front of Strauss and calmly explained that she was leaving the unit because the team needed him. He runs his fingertips over his knuckles, reminds himself of Foyet and how he has no right to condemn the decision she made. But it still hurts that she couldn't tell them, couldn't tell _him_. "Okay," he says, and a second later she's reached across and taken his hand in hers. He looks up at her and sees that despite the ghost of a smile on her face, there are tears in her eyes.

They talk, then, like they haven't for months, and he finds himself feeling closer to her every second, trying to ignore the inevitability of where they're headed. She doesn't take her hands back, and he starts to dread the moment when she will.

"Can I ask you something?" she says after a short silence, and she sounds more vulnerable than he has heard her since his first visit to her in hospital. He nods, squeezes her hand, and waits for her to go on. "My funeral," she says, and his heart sinks. It must show in his face, because she shakes her head, starts to apologise.

"No," he says quickly, although he can see the casket being lowered into the ground, JJ's determined eyes meeting his as they shared the heartbreaking horror of what they had done. "It's okay. You can ask."

"Was -" she hesitates, and he can see her steeling herself. "Did my mother go?"

His heart sinks again. JJ had been the one to call Ambassador Prentiss, and she'd come into his office afterwards, shaking her head in disbelief. _Short notice_. _An engagement_. They'd comforted themselves with the thought that she just hadn't taken the news in and would arrive on the day, but it hadn't happened.

His hesitation is enough to answer Emily's question, and as the tears pool in her eyes she turns to look out of the window. She looks so broken in that moment, and for a moment he sees her as disconnected as she must have felt when she ran from them to go after Doyle. "Emily," he says softly, and waits until she's turned back to him, tears sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto her arms, a slightly rueful, embarrassed smile on her face. She drags her gaze up to meet his, and he feels it again, that overpowering, tearing loss he'd felt as her lifeless hand dropped from his, and knows he's about to face it again in a few hours' time in Paris, and he knows he shouldn't say what he's thinking. "I love you."


	19. Chapter 19

"Emily, I am proud of you, do you know that? I've always been proud of you."

Under the intensity of her mother's gaze, Emily feels small and lost for words. She thinks probably her mother believes what she's saying right now. And she knows there's no value in challenging it – there's too much time and experience stretching between the Emily who needed her mother's support and approval and the one standing in front of her now, straight-backed in white silk. She looks across the dancefloor and just catches Morgan spinning Garcia under his arm and Hotch cutting in and whisking her away, Garcia giggling delightedly and Morgan tracking a fake tear down his cheek with his fingertip. She feels the smile on her face, the warmth in her chest, because these are the people who matter now, then her mother's hand taps above her elbow.

"And your father would be very proud of you."

That, she can believe, maybe because her father is more mythical being than person at this point. "Thank you," she says eventually. Then, because she has to say something else and also because it's true, she adds, "I'm glad you're here."

"Of course I'm here," her mother replies, and pulls her by the shoulders into a hug that feels as foreign as their hugs always have. But there is genuine warmth in it, like there always has been. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Later, she hovers on the edge of the dancefloor, stubbornly refusing to _work the room_ , and Hotch finds her, fingers ghosting down her arm as he kisses her. "Everything okay with the ambassador?"

"Mm," Emily replies vaguely, tearing her eyes away from how cute he is in a bow tie to look over his shoulder, at where her mother is working the room like a pro. "She says she's proud of me."

"I'm sure she is proud of you," he says, brushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead, bringing her eyes back to his. His touch is familiar and grounding, and god she loves him.

"She doesn't know me," she replies, and she steps into him, fits herself against his chest and sighs. "That was true when I was a kid, but it's more true now. She doesn't know what I've done that's worth being proud of."

"Maybe it's not exactly what you've done that's important. She can see who you've become." He pauses, kisses her temple and concedes, "Mostly."


	20. Chapter 20

When he calls her into his office, she knows the game is up. She has barely slept since finding out Doyle escaped, and she is trying so hard to keep herself together and keep this away from her team, but they're all suspicious of her. Hotch has been watching her like a hawk, and she knows he recognises the signs of her distancing herself, since the Foyet situation. Her heart hammers in her chest as she closes his door behind her, her overtired brain too close to tears at just the thought of losing what they were becoming before George Foyet killed Haley.

Neither of them sit, and for a moment they just look each other over. For just that moment, she wishes she hated him.

"Something's wrong," he says. There's no question in his tone, and no expectation. Fear stabs through her like it has a thousand times in the past few days, and she knows he can see it in her eyes – the concern in his expression doubles.

"Hotch," she says warningly, an edge of a plea creeping into her voice. "Please don't. It's nothing you need to worry about. I'll be okay."

He regards her for a moment, analysing her so openly that she finds herself defensively tilting her chin up, and he shakes his head very slightly. "I am worried. I wish you would talk to me. If there's something you need, some time, some help… Let us help you." She catches the switch from _me_ to _us_ and drops her gaze from his eyes. His hands are at his sides, his fingers restless, and there was a time not so long ago when she'd have reached for them, pulled them onto her hips… "Emily. I can help you," he adds, softly.

She closes her eyes, exhausted in every possible way, a lump aching in her throat and her eyes filling. All at once, she knows he will not let this go. "Please don't," she says again, wrapping her arms tight around herself. She opens her eyes, chews her lip. "I can't," she says, as soon as she can trust her voice. "This isn't…" She takes a breath, shakes her head a little. "It's personal."

"If you're in danger, I need to know," he says quietly.

She finds his eyes again, tries to hold his gaze without losing her composure entirely, but he's looking at her with fear and hurt, and god, the distance between them is more crushing than she would have ever believed it could be. "I won't let it get to you," she promises. "I'm going to make sure that you and Jack are safe -"

This is too much – Jack is too much. She feels the moment she can't hold herself together any longer, starts to turn away as tears start to fall, but he catches her shoulders and pulls her into him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. And she wishes it didn't feel right, but it does, and her hands spread out and hold onto him, her face in his neck, and when he speaks again his voice is low and determined in her ear. "We need to make sure we're all safe," he says. "You too. I need you to tell me what we're dealing with."


	21. Chapter 21

The first night Hotch stays over, Sergio refuses to come into the bedroom, and she doesn't do much to try to coax him because a significant part of her isn't ready to admit to Aaron Hotchner that her cat normally sleeps in bed with her.

Later, she thinks this was probably a mistake.

"He hates me," Hotch says bleakly to Emily, who is lying down on her living room floor and stretching a coaxing hand under the coffee table. "Does he come out of there as soon as I leave?"

"Usually," she admits. Sergio stretches out on his back and she rubs his belly, feeling his purr vibrating through his body. She thinks probably he's enjoying her grovelling attention at least as much as the belly rub. "Come on," she murmurs. "Come out, handsome. I promise he's a nice guy. Kind. Funny. A little terrified of you. You'll like him."

"I am not terrified," Hotch replies, a smile in his voice, nudging her leg with his foot.

"A little," she insists, and he doesn't object. "And he should be," she tells Sergio, scratching under his chin. "Because you have big claws and sharp, white teeth, and you're my number one…" She throws a glance up to Hotch, smiling, reminding him that she is mostly joking, and he raises his eyebrows. Getting up, she says, "I'm going to pull out the big guns." She heads for the kitchen, starts rummaging around for Sergio's favourite luxury salmon treats. They come from an honest-to-god farmers' market. "Spoiled brat," she mutters, lovingly.

She shakes the bag a little on her way back to the living room – normally he'd be doing figure-eights around her feet by now, either showing his appreciation or hoping she'll trip over him and break her neck and he can have the whole bag at once. She stops short in the doorway. Hotch is lying on his side on the living room floor, his polo shirt riding up on one side, talking quietly. "… also I have a gun. In fact, I have two, and I train hostage negotiators. I can wait you out, Sergio Prentiss, but if you don't tell me what your demands are then I can't negotiate."

"He demands luxury salmon treats," Emily says, indicating the fancy paper bag in her hand, and Hotch sits up quickly, folds his hands in his lap to protect them from attack, smiling a little sheepishly at her. "Also undying love, a space on the bed, the kind of toy mice that have catnip inside and don't squeak, the fancy woodchip litter…"

"He poops in a box," Hotch says, holding out his hand for salmon treats, "and I'm negotiating with him."

Shaking a few into his hand, she watches Sergio's nose and whiskers creep from under the table into view. "I'm sure you've negotiated with worse."


	22. Chapter 22

They hardly ever argue. They don't have much time together, the time is never right, so the hurt exists in the quiet moments Emily spends alone on transatlantic flights, thinking about how he is never the one in this position.

But standing in his kitchen in the midst of her decision to start recruiting for her replacement and the feelers she's putting out in the FBI Academy, his obliviousness to the inequality in their relationship is just one thing too many, and she can't help it. The moment it slips from her lips, part of her wishes she could catch it and stop it before it shatters them, but the rest can see the reality: if this can break them, her silence is all that's holding them together. She has spent her adult life refusing to be that woman.

He is confused at first, defensive, utterly unaware that this could be the hill they die on, and she hates how hard she's willing him to say the right thing. "I didn't know you felt that way. If you don't tell me what you need -"

She feels a humourless laugh threatening and catches herself just in time – she won't let herself be bitter in his eyes. "I need to not be the only one of us who's in this one hundred percent. I'm about to hand over a job I was headhunted for, running a _field office_ , and move back to a place I had to leave to save myself, because I believe in us and I _want this_."

"I want this too," he says, his voice strained, everything about his body language defensive.

"Sometimes," she replies quietly, and that shuts him up. The times he's panicked and pushed her away stretch between them, the times she's had to reach out and pull him back, and she knows she could start listing them at this point, and that it could quickly become a sermon. Instead, she holds his gaze and says evenly, "It's been too long and you're asking too much for that to be enough, Aaron."

She watches her words hit him and register, watches the flare of hurt and fear in his face, and she is relieved she doesn't have to give him the ultimatum outright. _I'm leaving tomorrow, and if I'm still this unconvinced, I'm not coming back._

"It's never about not wanting you," he says, softer, his eyes searching. "I don't always know the right thing to do. For Jack, for you…"

"You don't get to decide what's right for me."

"I know that, I do, but when I think about what happened with…" He trails off, and she knows what he's thinking: Haley's name is more than this conversation can handle.

"She fell in love with a high school kid," Emily says, when it becomes clear he isn't going to finish his sentence. "She didn't marry a BAU Unit Chief. It would've been a miracle if she still wanted to be with the man you grew into. _I chose that_. You don't need to protect me from your screwed up life. Protecting me is my job – let me worry about it." He flinches, starts to speak, and she adds, more quietly, "And Jack? When do you think this is wrong for Jack?"

This, she knows, is where he could destroy her. He takes a moment before he answers. "He can't lose you too," he says eventually. She sighs, tension leaking from her even though on the surface his answer is completely unsatisfactory.

"That is an excuse," she says. "And you know it." She shakes her head, her frustration bare for a moment. "You don't need an excuse to be afraid of losing me."


	23. Chapter 23

_Note: This follows on from two chapters in my latest 30 day fanfic challenge, Photograph and Patient, but this seemed like the best place for it. It's probably fairly self explanatory but it would make more sense if you read those first._

* * *

Emily backs out of Torey's room quietly, pulling the door most of the way shut behind her. She leaves the hallway light on – Torey would never ask her to, but Emily knows she prefers it. She runs a hand through her hair, pads lightly down the stairs and picks up Sergio at the bottom, kissing the top of his head. He tolerates this, nuzzles into her neck for a moment before jumping for freedom. He waits for her on her desk, sitting up by her keyboard with his tail flicking. "I'm done for the night, handsome," she tells him, sitting down heavily on the sofa, clicking on the lamp and patting the space beside her. "No more work til the morning."

He stares at her for a few more seconds before coming to join her, slinking across the floor then jumping up beside her, flipping onto his back by her side, pawing her hand to make sure she gets the idea. She rolls her eyes and rubs his tummy, her eyelids heavy from a tough week with too much worry and not enough sleep. It's been a bad week for Torey after a couple of settled months. She's been told to expect this – backward steps are normal – but she can't say it doesn't hurt.

Her phone pings on the armrest and she reaches for it absently, Sergio pawing her again when her hand slows. An email from Hotch. _I hear it's been a bad week. You know where we are – you're not alone, either of you. Movie night sometime this week? Jack has a new favourite – how does Torey feel about dinosaurs? Let me know. (It's up to you whether you read the attachment, but I thought you could use a reminder.) Aaron._

She smiles. Signing off emails with his first name is new. She taps the icon to open the attachment, and Sergio climbs into her lap, abandoning his attempts at restarting the tummy rub, and she settles a hand on his back.

 _To whom it may concern,_

 _I have known Emily Prentiss for 5 years, having worked alongside her and as her supervisor in the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit. We are a close knit team, and I have been fortunate enough to get to know Emily well during this time._

 _Our job often involves working with child victims and witnesses, and Emily is our lead in these situations. She is an extraordinary advocate for children, and her commitment to their safety, wellbeing and sense of security is absolute. They trust her instinctively, because she treats them with respect and empathy. She has never hesitated to share her time, compassion and sense of fun with my son, and I trust her completely with him._

 _I can confirm that Emily is financially able to provide a comfortable life for a child, and know of nothing in her character or history that would prevent her from being a successful parent. Emily handles stressful situations with an extraordinarily level head and has proven herself to be a uniquely dedicated and compassionate individual. She is a pleasure to be around, with a strong, positive support system near her home, and I am delighted to know she is planning to become an adoptive parent._

 _Please do not hesitate to contact me with any questions._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _SSA Aaron Hotchner_

She reads it, rereads it, stares at the screen until it blurs so much she can't decipher it. She wipes her cheeks with her sleeve, strokes Sergio with the other hand, and she thinks of Declan and Jack and Torey and the hundreds of pairs of hurt, frightened eyes she's looked into, and her heart warms and shatters a hundred times over. She thinks of _I trust her completely with him_ , and before she's made the decision to do it she's found his number in her phone and pressed call.

"Hi."

"Thank you," she says quietly.

He's quiet for a moment, and when he replies his voice is measured, soft. "You're welcome. Is she sleeping?"

"Yeah. Right now. She hasn't slept through a night all week."

"It's normal."

"I know."

"Emily…"

She closes her eyes. "I'm okay," she says quietly.

"I don't think anyone feels qualified to be a parent," he replies, just as softly. "I know I don't."

She lets out a breath that's something like a laugh, and for a while they sit in silence, her phone pressed to her ear. "She likes dinosaurs," she says eventually. She hears a floorboard creak upstairs, listens for a moment. "She's coming downstairs. How's tomorrow for you and Jack?"

"Perfect. See you then."

She meets her daughter at the foot of the stairs, her hair rumpled on one side and her stuffed cat toy dangling by the tail at her side. "Mommy's bed tonight?" Torey mumbles, looking down at her feet.

Emily reaches out a hand and smooths her hair, the mommy still new and fresh and beautiful in her ears. "Of course, sweetheart. Don't worry, it's okay to ask."

"Sergio coming?"

"I'm sure we could tempt him."


	24. Chapter 24

By the time they get a place together, she hasn't been back to her apartment for months. They've been talking about it for just as long. They take a week off, Morgan helps them decorate, Jessica takes Jack out while they do most of the unpacking, and by the time they get to their bedroom stuff they're most of the way through a bottle of wine.

He finishes first, sits back on the bed and watches her for a moment. "Can I help you?" he asks. "Or are these boxes of secrets?"

"You can help," she replies, sliding a box labelled 'sentimental' across the floor at him. "But your lips are sealed if Morgan ever asks about the contents of this box. We don't need another day like the one Garcia spent gloating about my yearbook picture."

Hotch stops dead, the box pulled up onto the bed beside him, one hand already inside it. "Garcia found your yearbook picture?"

She closes her eyes, thinking that sometimes you'd never know she was a successful undercover agent. "No," she says, and when she opens her eyes he's smiling, typing something on his phone. "Hey – no – what are you –? Hotch? Can we pretend I didn't just say that?"

Garcia replies in record time – Emily knows because he's suddenly roaring with laughter. She rolls her eyes, but can't help the grin on her face. She aims a swipe at him with a pillow, and he catches her by the wrist and pulls her onto his lap, kissing her cheek and holding her tight. "You looked ridiculous," he murmurs in her ear as she folds herself into his arms.

"Shut up."


	25. Chapter 25

_Hellooo - I've decided to do some 100 word drabbles to get my fic muscles up and running again._

* * *

He walks back to his team, their jobs safe against all the odds. His eyes meet hers over Jack's soft blond head and for a moment he is excruciatingly aware that she watched him beating George Foyet's body to a pulp. Mostly he blacked out, but he can't forget Foyet's ruined face, his own bloody, swollen knuckles. He wishes he could forget, and he knows he doesn't deserve to. And he knows she won't. But she holds his gaze, runs a hand down his son's back, then up his own arm. "Anything you guys need," she says quietly, and means it.


	26. Chapter 26

In the burn ward, it isn't the dying woman that upsets her. She knew it would be horrifying, and she is there to do a job. She takes her lead from Hotch's quiet, comforting voice, the softness in it surprising her, and as she listens to him she realises this job will not be what she thought. She expected clear cut, truthful, no more outright lies to material witnesses.

It was naïve, and letting it go feels like losing another part of herself. But respect for him expands in her chest, and she realises he isn't what she expected either.


End file.
